Post by Lilandrael on Jul 21, 2008 13:37:08 GMT -1
Okies I'm in the process of setting my crazy idea for a novel down on paper and I would like to know what you guys think of what I've written. So I'm going to post a snippet - the first sort of few paragraphs and I would love some feedback. Please do not copy, steal or use the text in any way.
"It’s surprising how much you can see, when the wall in front of you is a vast, white, nothingness. I’ve stared at the same patch of wall countless times before, searching you might say, for some sign of the answers I seek, as if from out of the flaking paint they’ll suddenly appear to enlighten me and correct my many mistakes. However, I’m always left disappointed. The words, they never appear. Instead it’s as if a machine, connected with my thoughts and memories is projecting them onto the chemical white walls, playing over and over again the same things, the same visions and the voices…always the voices accompanying the show with their cacophony of taunts and whispers, their urges and desires - those god d**n voices.
One image sticks out, it’s edges not quite as torn and frayed as the others, it’s colours still vibrant, resisting the faded tinge of time. Perhaps it’s because it is the first thing I can remember from my earliest childhood years. Everything seemed so fresh and untainted then, the world so shiny and new when around each corner was the possibility of adventure. Except there was never any adventure for me. The small four year old child laughing as his father pushed him along on his first bicycle, unaided by stabilisers - it was a real bike, a big boys vehicle and it meant the world was at his feet! That boy, he would never find the adventure he craved so much. As his tender skin felt the cruel gravel scrape and tear, the bicycle toppled, discarded and the concerned farther running to his aid - it was as if an omen had occurred to cast a dark cloud over his life from that day hence. Over my life.
Again my eyes search the cracks in the walls, the cobwebs on the ceiling as if they might yield some clues as to the origin of my torment. It’s all too easy to blame it on the misadventures of youth, too tempting to offload it all onto that four year old child who knew no better, but if not there then where, who? These friends and foes in my head didn’t suddenly appear one day, they’ve gradually increased in numbers over the years, making acquaintances and forming alliances, persuading and deterring, sniggering and mourning. I feel they will never truly leave me, most are firmly rooted in my both conscious and subconscious mind.
I can hear the footsteps stomping up and down the corridors outside of my room, the relentless pacing to and fro - the click, click of high heels, the scuffing of mules - I’d tare my hair out if had hair long enough to pull, and they call me crazy! That’s enough to drive a mad man sane! Yet we’re all madmen in here, living in our own clinical versions of hell with our drugs and our ghosts, our compulsions and delusions. I can understand why that lot are in here. Give them a plastic spoon and they’ll still try and stab themselves with it.
That’s not the point though - I digress too soon. What I mean to say is that we are the forgotten dregs of society, the down-and-outs. Much easier to lock us away in a nice sterile ward with our own kind, fill us full of drugs and chemicals, use us as guinea pigs if you have to, but for Gods sake don’t let us loose in the shiny happy world out there. It’s detrimental to the health of society - we’re a disease that can’t be cured, merely put into a corner of unsolved riddles. "
"It’s surprising how much you can see, when the wall in front of you is a vast, white, nothingness. I’ve stared at the same patch of wall countless times before, searching you might say, for some sign of the answers I seek, as if from out of the flaking paint they’ll suddenly appear to enlighten me and correct my many mistakes. However, I’m always left disappointed. The words, they never appear. Instead it’s as if a machine, connected with my thoughts and memories is projecting them onto the chemical white walls, playing over and over again the same things, the same visions and the voices…always the voices accompanying the show with their cacophony of taunts and whispers, their urges and desires - those god d**n voices.
One image sticks out, it’s edges not quite as torn and frayed as the others, it’s colours still vibrant, resisting the faded tinge of time. Perhaps it’s because it is the first thing I can remember from my earliest childhood years. Everything seemed so fresh and untainted then, the world so shiny and new when around each corner was the possibility of adventure. Except there was never any adventure for me. The small four year old child laughing as his father pushed him along on his first bicycle, unaided by stabilisers - it was a real bike, a big boys vehicle and it meant the world was at his feet! That boy, he would never find the adventure he craved so much. As his tender skin felt the cruel gravel scrape and tear, the bicycle toppled, discarded and the concerned farther running to his aid - it was as if an omen had occurred to cast a dark cloud over his life from that day hence. Over my life.
Again my eyes search the cracks in the walls, the cobwebs on the ceiling as if they might yield some clues as to the origin of my torment. It’s all too easy to blame it on the misadventures of youth, too tempting to offload it all onto that four year old child who knew no better, but if not there then where, who? These friends and foes in my head didn’t suddenly appear one day, they’ve gradually increased in numbers over the years, making acquaintances and forming alliances, persuading and deterring, sniggering and mourning. I feel they will never truly leave me, most are firmly rooted in my both conscious and subconscious mind.
I can hear the footsteps stomping up and down the corridors outside of my room, the relentless pacing to and fro - the click, click of high heels, the scuffing of mules - I’d tare my hair out if had hair long enough to pull, and they call me crazy! That’s enough to drive a mad man sane! Yet we’re all madmen in here, living in our own clinical versions of hell with our drugs and our ghosts, our compulsions and delusions. I can understand why that lot are in here. Give them a plastic spoon and they’ll still try and stab themselves with it.
That’s not the point though - I digress too soon. What I mean to say is that we are the forgotten dregs of society, the down-and-outs. Much easier to lock us away in a nice sterile ward with our own kind, fill us full of drugs and chemicals, use us as guinea pigs if you have to, but for Gods sake don’t let us loose in the shiny happy world out there. It’s detrimental to the health of society - we’re a disease that can’t be cured, merely put into a corner of unsolved riddles. "
